One Thousand Nights
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Short piece from Han's perspective re: sleeping with Leia means sleeping with her nightmares.


_a/n: just a small thing. no specific context._

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 ** _One Thousand Nights_**

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It didn't bother him.

He was used to it.

Sometimes it was only once, sometimes it was multiple times a night, sometimes she slept easy and uninterrupted, but regardless, it didn't bother him, and he was used to it – he could sleep anywhere, and through anything, if he needed to; he could be fully alert in an instant and he was capable of falling back to sleep without a struggle so in truth, he was the perfect person to share her bed.

In the beginning he'd been prone to making it an ordeal, to giving her an intimidating level of worried attention, but in time he'd learned she didn't always need to be violently shaken awake and fawned over; most often, she just needed to know he was there, and she was safe, and whatever thing had haunted her nightmare was not the thing lying next to her in bed.

He was so accustomed to Leia's fitful sleep that it hardly even fully woke him up anymore. It wasn't for lack of concern, it was that he'd come to realize she calmed down faster if he didn't make a fuss out of it; she was soothed easier if she was silently reminded she wasn't alone, and her twisting and turning wasn't going to faze him or send him packing.

There were nights when the terrors of slumber were so bad that her screams echoed around the cabin, and she'd wake drenched in sweat and fighting to get out of his grip while she oriented herself, remembered where she was, remembered that he wasn't going to hurt her – those incidents were rare, and still, even those didn't scare him off – but the garden variety nightmares that occurred with unfortunate frequency were easy for him.

On those nights when he'd fallen asleep touching her – his arms around her, or his nose against the back of her neck, or his hand splayed over her ribs – he sensed her distress immediately; her muscles would tense, or she'd jerk her head violently; if he had his back turned, or she was curled up by herself, wrapped in sheets, it took longer, because he had to hear her to be alerted: a painful, hoarse gasp, or strangled, sharp whimpers – soft, unintelligible words that he knew were whispered pleas for mercy.

He always waited before waking her, because sometimes, inexplicably, she settled, and she'd relax and sleep on, as if the nightmare had melted away into nothing. If she didn't though, he intervened, running his hand over her abdomen and mumbling her name firmly, or rolling over to shake her shoulder until she snapped out of it.

She'd reach out for him hesitantly, like she wasn't sure he was there, apologetic for waking him, but the grip he returned was always firm and forgiving, pulling her closer like it was nothing – because to him, it really was nothing; she couldn't help what the Empire had done to her; it wasn't her fault she couldn't sleep.

Sometimes she was so exhausted she'd just lay her head on his arm and go back to sleep, pressed so close to him that her eyelashes twitched against his chest; other times, she ran trembling hands over him, clenching and unclenching her teeth wordlessly while he lazily ran his fingers through her hair, lips pressed close to her ear.

"Han," his name would escape her lips, in a tremulous whisper, in moments of vulnerability when she needed to reassure herself that it was him.

"'M right here," he'd answer, his voice low and sleepy. "You're okay, Leia."

He never liked those very bad nights when she started crying, but more often than not she just breathed a tired sigh of relief and found his lips for a kiss, snuggling closer to be held, even if she didn't go back to sleep for a while.

He was able to go back to sleep with ease, but he never did until he felt her breathing even out, and was sure she wasn't awake anymore.

It was a habit and a familiar dance: Leia struck by nightmares, Han there to gently extricate her, anchor her back in the present.

Washing her face one morning, touching the dark circles under her eyes, she looked up at him where he stood behind her, and caught his eye in the mirror as he shaved, noticing just the barest hint of similar dark circles under his – how many times, now, had her disturbed and distorted dreams wrenched her out of sleep, and how many times had he been there just to slip his arms around her and mumble reassurances in her ear?

"Isn't sleeping with me exhausting?" she asked hoarsely. "Aren't you tired?"

He paused, his razor hovering near his chin, looking at her silently. He read the deeper meaning in her words – _there are women out there who are easier to be with._

He shrugged, and pressed his razor to his jaw again, returning to shaving, answering her bluntly, simply –

"Sleeping with _out_ you is exhausting."

She turned to look at him directly, tilting her head up with a small smile, and he flicked his razor at her pointedly, peppering her with specks of shaving foam, as if to say – _don't ask me something that ridiculous again._

He gave her a smug look, but there was depth behind it – because it really _didn't_ bother him, and he really _was_ used to it, so used to it, and he'd rather spend a thousand nights tired and awake next to her than asleep with anyone else.

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 _-Alexandra_  
 _story #312_


End file.
